The Tea Rose Part 9

"Ohhh, Harry Eaton, you're going to get it. Just as soon as my head stops spinning."

"Why? You used to love it when I spun you around."

"When I was five years old, you fool!"

"It's good to see you, Mills," Harry said, looking at her with genuine affection. "It's ever so dull here, with just the two of us. You're a ray of suns.h.i.+ne in this dreary place."

"Dull? Dreary? Thanks a lot, mate," Joe said.

"Sorry, lad, you're a cracker of a roommate, but my cousin's much prettier."

Millie did indeed brighten the room. She had taken off her wet cloak and was wearing a b.u.t.terscotch plaid skirt and jacket, with ivory lace at the collar and cuffs. The color was rich and played up her hazel eyes and honey blond hair beautifully. Little topaz drops dangled from her earlobes and E. matching bracelet, small and tasteful, circled her wrist. Her hair was pulled back into an ornate knot, secured by tortoisesh.e.l.l combs. She was a picture there was no denying. Thinking Millie and Harry might like to have their dinner, Joe decided to make himself scarce. He walked to his wardrobe to get his jacket.

"Where are you going?" Millie asked, looking up from her basket.

"I thought I'd take a walk."

"On a day like this? In the rain? You'll do no such thing. You'll catch your death. Stay and have dinner with us. I hoped ... I thought you might be here and I brought tons of food just in case you were. You won't disappoint me after I came all this way, will you?" She turned to her cousin.

"Harry, make him stay."

''I'm afraid you'll have to, squire. Millie has made her wishes clear and there'll be no peace for either of us if you don't."

Joe saw that to insist on leaving would be rude. Millie had begun to unpack all sorts of things and he was awfully hungry. "Well, if you're sure it's no bother ... "

"None at all," she said. "Here, take this cloth and spread it out in front of the stove. Harry, can you build the fire up a little?"

With Millie directing them, Joe and Harry soon had the picnic set up.

Harry shoveled coal into the stove and stoked the fire until it was blazing. He left the door open, the better to warm the room. Joe spread the white tablecloth on the rug and opened bottles of ginger beer. Millie placed all the goodies she unpacked on the cloth, bade her companions sit down, gave them napkins and cutlery, then served them their dinner.

"Cor, Millie, you've enough 'ere to feed an army," Joe exclaimed.

"An army named Harry," she said, cutting into a pork pie. "It's my Auntie Martha's - Harry's mum's - fault. She wrote and asked me to make sure that her darling lad was getting enough to eat.

She gave me a list of his favorite things."

"Well, she didn't mean for me to eat them all at once! Even I couldn't get through this spread," Harry said.

In addition to a large pork pie, there were Scotch eggs, sausage rolls, plump meat pasties, roast chicken, cold lamb, kippers, brown bread, Stilton and cheddar, gingerbread, and lemon biscuits.

Joe and Harry were hungry, and as soon as Millie had handed them their plates, they tucked into their dinners with relish.

"This is grand, Millie, thank you," Joe said.

"Aye," Harry mumbled through a mouthful of food. "A d.a.m.n sight better than the slop from the cookshop."

While Joe and Harry ate, Millie talked. She asked how their work was going and told funny stories about her and Harry's childhood that made them all laugh. Joe learned that Harry's mother was Millie's late mother's only sister, that Harry was only six months older than she was, and that the two cousins had been playmates since childhood, but had seen less and less of each other in recent years, as Harry's family had moved to Brighton.

Joe looked from Millie to Harry - two blond heads, two laughing faces.

There was a strong resemblance between them. Like Millie, Harry was fair but he was big and brawny. He liked sport, horses, and pretty girls. He didn't like the produce business and had told Joe as much, making him swear not to say anything to his uncle. Harry wanted to be an explorer. He wanted to go to India and Africa. He'd told Joe he would, too; in December, when he turned twenty.

As soon as Joe cleaned his plate, Millie filled it again. He took a swig of his ginger beer, then leaned back against one of the wing chairs, determined to eat his second helping a bit more slowly than his first. A pleasant la.s.situde settled on him as the afternoon lengthened. The food, the blazing fire, and Millie's lively presence had taken the gloom off the day and dispelled hi, loneliness. He felt warm, well-fed, and contented. He'd never had a day lib this, with no work and no worries and nothing to do but sit in front of a fire with two friends. He felt as if he didn't have a care in the world, here with Harry and Millie.

He looked at Millie, chattering on, and wondered if she had a care in the world, if she'd ever had one. Although she was looking at Harry, she was sitting so close to Joe, he could smell her perfume. Lilac. Her color was high; her blond hair shone in the firelight. He closed his eyes and thought of Fiona and how she would enjoy all the little luxuries-the ginger beer, the Stilton, the lemon biscuits. He wished she were here. He would write and tell her all about it. But, no, he thought, maybe not. The fact that he'd been with Millie all afternoon wouldn't go over well. Even if he said Millie had only come to visit her cousin, which, of course, was true, Fiona would be jealous.

She couldn't see that Millie was just a nice, sweet girl. He would keep this to himself.

Joe felt a soft pinch on his leg and heard Millie and Harry laughing. He realized that they were laughing at him.

"I say, Bristow, are we keeping you up?" Harry asked.

Joe opened his eyes, smiling. "Not at all," he said, stretching. "Just resting me eyes."

"What time is it, Harry?" Millie asked.

"Just gone five."

''I'd better get going," she said, beginning to wrap up the leftovers. "I told Harris to fetch me at five. He's probably outside right now."

Harry reached over and grabbed her hand. "No, I'm sorry but you can't go. You'll have to stay here with us forever."

"That would hardly be proper, now would it? Will you stop it, Harry.? Let me pack ... " she giggled, trying to twist free of his grasp.

"Only if you promise to come visit again. Soon. Promise, Mills."

"All right, but only if Joe wants me to."

"Of course I do, Millie," Joe said, coloring. "It's been nice 'avin' you 'ere." And it had. Millie's company had made the afternoon fly by.

She smiled at him, then resumed her tidying. Harry and Joe helped. ''I'm not taking this back with me," she said. "Just put it on the landing where it's cool and it'll keep."

"Smas.h.i.+ng! We'll be set for days," Harry said.

''I'm leaving the other basket, too. It's got wool blankets in it. It's getting chilly and Dad never thinks about who's cold unless it's his apples and oranges."

After they had packed up their picnic and folded up the cloth, Harry helped Millie put her cloak on, pulling the hood up and tying it under her chin.

"Take care getting home," he cautioned. "We'll walk you down."

Harry led the way down the stairs; Millie and Joe followed. Outside, the rain had stopped, but the evening was dark and drizzly. Gas lamps flickered, their flames reflected in the slick surface of the cobbles, and lanterns glowed on either side of Millie's carriage.

"Evening, Harris," Harry said to the driver. "Evening, sir," Harris replied, tipping his hat.

Harry opened the carriage door. "Bye, Silly Millie. I wish you didn't have to go."

"I'll come again. On a better day. And we'll all go out for tea, or a walk in the park." She went up on tiptoes to give Harry a peck on the cheek, then turned to Joe and gave him a quick kiss, too. He smelled her perfume again as she pressed against him; felt her lips brush his cheek and her hand squeeze his arm. Then Harry bundled her into the carriage, rapped on the side, and she was gone.

Harry and Joe looked after the carriage for a few minutes, until it was out of sight, then headed back upstairs. Their room seemed gray and hollow now.

"She's quite a character, isn't she?"

"Oh, aye," Joe said. "That she is. Place feels empty without 'er."

"She's a bonny la.s.s," Harry said, settling himself in front of the fire. "I'll tell you, whoever gets her has it made. A pretty face, a wealthy father, and a fine pair of t.i.ts to boot."

"I 'adn't noticed," Joe said. He picked up the coal bucket and fed a few lumps to the stove.

Harry smirked. "Of course you hadn't." He stretched his legs out before him, patted his stomach, and sighed contentedly. "A man could do a lot worse than Millie in the wife department. If she wasn't my cousin, I'd marry her myself."

Suddenly Joe felt uncomfortable; Harry's tone had turned too serious "Maybe you ought to, old son. No other woman will 'ave you."

Harry made a face. "Unfortunately, you're wrong. There's the dreaded Caroline Thornton."

"Who?" Joe closed the oven door and sat down on the other side of it. "The girl my dear mother has picked out for me. In Brighton. Pop-eyed flat-chested, teeth like an old picket fence, but pots and pots of money. And head over heels in love with me."

Joe laughed. "Sounds like an angel."

Harry snorted. "A devil, rather. But she won't get her claws in me. No sir. I'm telling you, Joe, I'm joining the foreign service. Swear you won't tell my uncle-"

"I already swore."

"Swear again."

"I swear," Joe said, rolling his eyes.

"I'll be off before the end of the year. Far away from London and Brighton and Miss Caroline Thornton. And apples and oranges, too. I can't take this business. I don't give a d.a.m.n for it and I never will."

"Maybe you should tell your uncle," Joe suggested. "Maybe' e' d understand."

"Never. Uncle Tommy'll kill me when he finds out, but it'll be too late by then. I'll be on a steamer bound east." Harry was silent for a moment, gazing into the fire. "He wants me to be the son he never had ... the son he lost. but I'm not."

" 'E can't expect that of you, 'arry, you've got to live your life. 'E'll get over it. 'E'll just 'ave to find somebody else, won't 'e?"

Harry nodded slowly, then turned to Joe and smiled. "Maybe he already has."

Chapter 8.

Nothing in London could compete with the sheer spectacle, the dizzing variety, the tumult and commotion of Harrods's food hall on a Sat.u.r.day morning. It was a veritable cathedral of food, where fine ladies selected pretty cakes and biscuits, and imperious housekeepers piled package after package in the arms of the hapless grooms who trailed them, brisk, shopgirls wrapped purchases at lightning speed, and ap.r.o.ned lads raced up and down, replenis.h.i.+ng shelves.

To Fiona, the sight was nothing short of magical. As she walked up one aisle and down the next, she had to hold on to Joe's arm to keep from stumbling. She simply couldn't keep her eyes ahead of her. "Look!" she said, pointing to an artful mosaic of fish on a mountain of crushed ice.

Beyond it, rabbits, pheasants, geese, ducks, and partridges hung from steel hooks. To the left was the meat counter -no necks and backs here. This was rich man's meat-tender fillets, tawny hams, chops as thick as a fist. They strolled past the spice counter, past bottles of the finest ports and Madeiras, into the produce section where Joe proudly pointed out the blus.h.i.+ng Bramleys and golden Boscs from Peterson's of Covent Garden.

Their last stop was the pastry hall, where Fiona was taken by a beautiful wedding cake.

Cascades of red sugar roses, so well done they looked real, decorated its ivory fondant sides. A card at its base informed the curious that it was a replica of one done for the wedding of Lilian Price Hammersley of New York to George Charles Spencer-Churchill, the Eighth Duke of Marlborough.

The sugar roses, it said, were modeled after a new specimen of rose from the United States-the American Beauty.

"We'll 'ave one just like it," Joe said. "Only with Whitechapel Beauties on it."

"Whitechapel Beauties? Never 'eard of them."

"Also known as daisies."

"Do 'Arrods deliver to Whitechapel?" Fiona asked, giggling.

"Wouldn't that be a sight?" Joe said, laughing himself. "The 'Arrods van trying to get to Whitechapel? They probably don't even know it's in London."

They were convulsed with laughter as they walked out of the store at the idea of the green Harrods van, with its straight-backed, white-gloved driver, b.u.mping and bouncing over the pitted dockland streets, mobbed by urchins and stray dogs. .

"Where will we go next?" Fiona asked, her blue eyes sparkling.

"Past Hyde Park to Bond Street and Regent Street, and then a surprise. Come on."

Everything had been a surprise since early that morning when Joe arrived at Montague Street and knocked on her door. She'd flown to answer it, knowing it would be him, for he'd written a fortnight ago to tell her he wanted to take her on an outing.

She'd asked her mam, who'd said, "Ask your da," who'd huffed a bit, but finally said she could go. Then she'd pleaded with Mr. Minton for a half-day off from work. He made her grovel, but finally agreed-with a dock in wages, of course.

At first, she'd been so excited she could barely wait for the day to arrive But she soon realized she didn't have anything nice to wear and that she'd have to go in the better of her two skirts and a plain cotton blouse. Her mother noticed her sudden glumness and guessed what was wrong. An expert at making something out of nothing, she soon remedied the problem. She took Fiona into her bedroom and rummaged in a trunk until she found what she was after-a navy-and-cream-striped peplum jacket that she'd worn the day she was married. It was too small for her now-four children had broadened her bosom and waist-but it fit Fiona perfectly, showing off her slender figure. Fiona had also borrowed a little bra.s.s-and-enamel pansy brooch from her friend Bridget, and Uncle Roddy's lady friend, Grace, had lent her a pretty embroidered purse.

Her father and her Uncle Roddy had provided the finis.h.i.+ng touch a navy velvet wide-brimmed hat and two red milliner's roses. She'd come in late from work on Friday evening and found them sitting on the table, in her place. Her da had his face behind a newspaper, as always, and her Uncle Roddy was pouring himself some porter. Charlie and Seamie were at the table. Kate was at the stove. Fiona looked, wide-eyed, from the hat to her mother.

"From your da," her mam had said. "And your Uncle Roddy."

She'd picked up the hat. It was secondhand and there was a little fray in the velvet on one side where some tr.i.m.m.i.n.g had come off, but it was nothing the roses wouldn't hide. She knew her mam had picked them out and that her father and Roddy had paid for them. She tried to say thank you, but he throat was tight and her eyes were glistening.

"Don't you like them, la.s.s?" Roddy asked, concerned.

"Oh, yes, Uncle Roddy!" she said, finding her voice. "I love them! Thank you ever so much.

Thank you, Da!"

Roddy smiled. "Picked them flowers out meself," he said. Paddy snorted.

Fiona gave Roddy a hug, then got between her father and his newspaper and gave him one, too. "You shouldn't 'ave, Da. Thank you."

"It's only a little somet'ing," he said gruffly. "You enjoy yourself tomorro'-' And tell Bristow he'd better take care of you or he'll be answering to me."